The check-out girl at the grocery store was named Destiny, according to her tag.
And I wondered what her destiny might be.
And I wondered if she wondered.
Some predestined plan?
A trip-tik plotted out with detours and delays for her drive through decades
toward the person she was supposed to meet and be? Or if not plotted turn by turn,
at least a strategic destination with alternate routes, to be reached by Destiny.
Destiny, some mother’s unfulfilled fantasy assigned to her newborn daughter,
perhaps a wealthy husband or making captain by 40 on the local police force, or
perhaps Olympic gold in some obscure but internationally recognized sport,
all things her mother never did but wanted to do in a never-ever world.
I wondered what Destiny dreamed for herself, standing at the conveyor stream of
unhusked corn, frozen dinners, kidney beans, cheddar cheese and sauerkraut
and perhaps a National Enquirer for the curious minded.
Or perhaps, with luck, she was allowed to watch her life unfold,
instincts and interests, her natural gifts and strengths,
fears and foibles, talents fed and talents fumbled,
until she noticed what she was made of and for.